


Lillies and Remains

by Sesh



Category: South Park
Genre: Extremely one-sided Pete/Michael actually, Friendship, Gen, Ghosts, Haunting, Murder Mystery, Occult, One-Sided Relationship, Paranormal, but that's more of an eventual side thing and not at all the focus
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-05-10
Updated: 2016-01-24
Packaged: 2018-01-24 05:58:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 16,685
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1594151
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sesh/pseuds/Sesh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He wakes up dead, abandoned and half-buried in the leaves and snow. </p><p>All he wants is to know why.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

i.

_See I was dead when I woke up this morning_  
 _I'll be dead before the day is done  
_ _\- Seven Devils, Florence + The Machine  
_

Wake up.

Eat soggy cereal for breakfast.

Drag himself to the bus stop.

Hang out behind the school with the others until a teacher shoos them all back inside.

Drag themselves to Henrietta's house.

Drag themselves to the Village Inn when motherly smothering becomes unbearable.

Drag himself home.

Warm up days-old leftovers for dinner.

Stare at the ceiling as music plays until the claws of sleep finally take hold.

Rinse, repeat, ad infinitum.

Until: 

He shifts, shivers. 

_cold cold cold, too dark and_

_alone_

_and cold, cold_

Wake up.

_Wake. Up._

His dingy, grey ceiling, covered in posters and glow in the dark plastic stars and planets have gone missing, replaced with bright morning sunlight. 

His brain provides the dull punchline to an even duller joke: _Someone has stolen our tent, Watson._

Bedroom, home, the whole trailer park has been stolen and replaced with trees, lanky and bare save a glistening carpet of snow on their branches. 

He should be blinking back the sunlight, turning away from it until his eyes adjust. Leaving the offensive fact that it simply exists aside, it doesn't bother him in the slightest. 

Now is as good a time as any to push himself out bed, or whatever bed substitute he is currently laying on, he decides. He glances to the side. A thin layer of snow in every direction, snuggling up against tree trunks and rocks. It's going to be an early winter this year. It had been _(cold, so cold)_ unusually brisk lately, with snow flurries every day. He isn't cold now. Not particularly warm, but nowhere near as cold as he should be after sleeping on the ground. Perhaps it is the blanket of leaves piled atop him from head to toe. Crisp, dead leaves in all the colors of an intense sunset. Not a single shade of brown to be seen.

He presses his hands into the snow as he begins to sit up. It's firm and tightly packed, and does not give way beneath his hands. A squirrel scampers out from under a bush, leaving tiny paw prints in its wake. Light, powdery snow scatters like dust motes beneath its feet. He won't stop to consider what it means.

He jerks himself upright into a sitting position, and though the leaves had covered him up to his neck at least, not a single one is jostled with the motion. No spill of detritus to his sides, no crinkling noises as leaves brush against leaves, against snow or twigs or pebbles. Just a quiet breeze far above his head. His lips press together into a thin line and he picks an imaginary piece of lint off his shirt. Straightens out wrinkles that don't exist. His clothes are far too impeccable for having been slept in outside. 

It's been a strange dream, he thinks, but it's time for it to end. He'll pick up a pack of multivitamins on his next snack run at the drug store, and perhaps his subconscious won't need to yell at him for a perceived Vitamin D deficiency. That's all it is. Just his brain telling him to get out in the sun more. He's disappointed in the organ for coming up with such a... _conventional_ ...message, but he chalks it up to his slightly odder than usual sleeping habits as of late. That's all.

He wants to wait out the rest of the dream right where he is, but as minutes creep by in what feels like real-time, not quick, fluid dream-time, he feels a lump forming in his throat. He's never felt more awake. Time to get up and move.

Standing up suddenly feels like a major accomplishment. The leaves do not move around him, do not twitch, do not even slide off his body in one mass lump. He simply moves through them as if they weren't there. As if he weren't there. 

He clenches and unclenches his fists before shoving them into his pockets. They come back with a smoke and a lighter, and the feel of them between his fingers is enough to put his mind at ease. For a moment.

"Quit being a fucking pussy, Pete," he mutters, unwilling to raise his voice out here. It is somehow very wrong.

He has to look. He doesn't know why, but he is compelled to, just as strongly as he does not want to.

Perhaps stronger, as he settles on getting it over with and looking. He drags his feet as he turns in place, casting his gaze downwards.

He maintains a perfect poker face as he stares down at his own half-buried corpse, stares down into its open, blank eyes. 

He shoves a hastily lit cigarette between his lips and inhales to keep from screaming.

He'll pretend it worked later.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was determined to write something happy and cute for once. Instead, I killed my main character before the first chapter even began and it spiraled into a depressing paranormal murder mystery from there. Oops.
> 
> Fair warning: Everything will get much worse before there is any chance of it getting better. But since I'm the one writing this, there is a distinct chance of things not getting better at all, as I apparently do not understand that human emotion called "happiness".
> 
> Strictly for my own comfort, all characters have been aged up two years from what I estimated their canon ages to be. Therefore, Pete and Henrietta are 11, Michael and Mike are 13, and Firkle is still a baby at 7. Rating may change in the future, however it will be for language/violence only. No sexual situations in this fic at all, because even aged up a bit they are all still tiny young babies.
> 
> Lastly: Title is a Bauhaus song, yes. There are several points where it will have some lyrical relevance, and not just "I picked this because why not xD" I may decide to write things on a complete whim, but I do like to plan ahead regardless, so... Blarg. See you around for the next one, I hope!! (♥)


	2. Chapter 2

ii.

_You've been acting awful tough lately_  
 _Smoking a lot of cigarettes lately_  
 _But inside, you're just a little baby, oh_  
 _It's okay to say you've got a weak spot_  
 _You don't always have to be on top  
_ _Better to be hated than loved, loved, loved for what you're not_

_You're vulnerable, you're vulnerable_  
 _You are not a robot.  
_ _-[I Am Not a Robot, Marina and the Diamonds](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=g6UN_6dmWxY)  
_

After the initial shock and revulsion wears off, after he has had a few moments to compose himself and finish half his cigarettes, he goes back to it. Stands over it and stares at it with a morbid curiosity. Squats down next to it and tilts his head as he takes it in. It's not like looking into a mirror, not even a trick mirror designed to warp the appearance. He feels a sense of detachment that only grows stronger as time passes. Detachment, or perhaps acceptance.

He is well and truly dead, there really isn't any denying it. Open eyes sunk deep into his skull stare blankly back at him. His lips are grey and cracked. His skin has achieved a pale porcelain that, for all his aversion to the sun, he had never managed in life. The tinge of blue makes it less than appealing, though. And it clashes horribly with his hair, he notes with some distaste. The red dye has begun to fade, and his roots are showing.

Gross.

He stands up again, turns away from it. He's dead, fine, he's accepted it. Time to sit back and wait for the Grim fucking Reaper to escort him to oblivion.

But.

He looks at it over his shoulder.

"I dyed my hair last week."

Perhaps a little longer ago than that. But certainly nowhere near enough time should have passed for his roots to come through.

Well, shit.

He drops down and gets close, almost presses his nose against his hair as he inspects it. He gives the corpse the benefit of the doubt and gives a generous estimate of having having dyed his hair two weeks ago. That would still leave at least two weeks of decent color before he would have had to dye it again. 

"It obviously wouldn't have grown out after I died. But I definitely remember doing it recently. Except it _couldn't_ have been recently."

Time has passed, but how much? 

Two weeks?

Three?

A month?

He shakes his head.

"Not a month. I don't look... gooey, yet."

Still, that's two or three weeks of his life he has no recollection of. And he had been avoiding the obvious questions of how he managed to end up in the forest to begin with. Why he's covered in a thick blanket of leaves. Hidden and abandoned in the middle of nowhere.

The term 'foul play' comes to mind, and with it a host of unsettling imagery. 

He hisses under his breath and fixes his gaze on the leaves. Should probably see what's under there. Bullet holes or stab wounds or, hell, maybe he's just a head and neck and the leaves are hiding nothing.

It's probably not nothing.

He lights another cigarette, noting that his pack does not seem to be running low yet. Well, if unlimited cigs are a perk of being dead, he'll take it.

He should move the leaves out of the way. Just. Reach over and push them away.

Smoke trails up into the sky and vanishes for several minutes before he extends his hand. 

Reaches over and --

"It fucking figures," he grumbles, falling back and crossing his arms over his chest.

Just as before, when he had first awoken, he has simply passed through the leaves instead of knocking them down.

He supposes it makes sense. If he's dead, he shouldn't be able to affect the living world directly. That's Ghosts 101, right there.

But then, what is he supposed to do now?

"Well, I'm not gonna hang around here and haunt my goddamn corpse like some goddamn conformist ghost."

Can ghosts even be conformist?

Damn will it suck if the afterlife ends up full of the same types of people he had to deal with while living.

He thinks of his friends, his small clique that provided him with a respite from the cookie-cutter monotony of the rest of the world. It'll suck even more if he's going to spend eternity without them. 

"No way."

He isn't going to sit around and watch his body decompose, and he isn't going to spend the rest of his afterlife separated from the only group of people that made it worth rolling out of bed in the morning. He'll head back to South Park and meet back up with them. He's pretty sure they'll be happy to see him. Ghosts were pretty goth. He could probably fit back in without too much fuss. The whole 'being dead' thing might be a little awkward for a while, but it would all go back to normal soon enough. 

Wouldn't it?

Well.

At the very least, he might be able to get some answers out of them. Fill in the blanks of his missing weeks, or at least get a hint. 

Having settled the matter with himself, he picks a direction that feels most promising and begins to walk. A barbed wire fence about chest high is the only barrier in his path, albeit a useless one as he strides through it. He's never been this deep into the forest, has never seen the twisting tree or cracked boulder that make for decent landmarks, but he knows where to turn regardless. 

Ghostly GPS, or something he should have remembered from his missing weeks?

An hour or so later, when he reaches the edge of the woods and sees familiar rooftops in the distance, he decides it doesn't matter. It worked, he's here, he's going to track down the others. _That_ is what matters.

It's still much too early for them to have retired to the Village Inn, and assuming it's not a school day, they're most likely to be holed up in Henrietta's room. 

Oh, who is he kidding.

They're likely to be there even if it _is_ a school day these days. Michael had graduated into the local junior high, and meeting up at the back of the building was much less practical when there were now two buildings involved. They had collectively decided, 'fuck it', and ditched school entirely when they could, sneaking back into Henrietta's house after her parents left for work. If they're anywhere, they'll be there.

The trip through the town goes much more quickly than through the forest. He doesn't need to bother with climbing over or under fences, or maneuvering around buildings when he can just walk through them all. It's so much more convenient, and very soon he is standing on her front porch. 

Standing, and shuffling awkwardly from one foot to another. 

Should he just... go in? 

He can't exactly knock or ring the doorbell anymore, not that he would have done so before, at least not if Henrietta's parents weren't home. But he has been potentially gone for quite a while. He wonders if there is a certain form of etiquette one should adhere to when making social calls whilst unexpectedly dead.

Then again, he never was one for adhering to proper social graces.

He walks through the door and enters into the familiar parlor, passes through unlit rooms and up the staircase until he reaches her room.

"Guys?"

The door is wide open, her room completely empty.

Sort of.

It's empty of people, yes, but most of her belongings are still there. Some clothes are scattered around the floor, her phone and iPod absent from her desk, a few books taken off the shelf. 

"No way she got sent away somewhere again."

He wanders through the rest of the house, poking through her brother's room, and very quickly, her parents'. They each have the same, partially-empty look to them. The entire Biggle family has packed up and left for... somewhere. His wandering brings him to the kitchen, where he pokes his head into cupboards and the refrigerator. Still well stocked, all of them. Either they abandoned South Park in a hurry, or they don't intend to be gone too long.

He shakes his head, then shakes it again to clear the hair from his eyes. If his friends aren't here, then Michael's house would be the next best bet. Not Firkle's. Never Firkle's, for reasons the kid never bothered to elaborate on, save an irritated rolling of the eyes. They never bothered to pry, either, though occasionally he would feel a sting of curiosity. 

It's sometime after midday when he reaches Michael's house, and here, too, he pauses on the doorstep. Even more than before he feels awkward, and ends up sitting on the top step, smoking a cigarette and playing with his lighter. Hoping that Michael would just decide to walk out on his own and spare him the search. He estimates that he's gone through a whole pack already, not that he could tell with the way it keeps refilling itself. He wonders if he even needs to worry about his lungs anymore. 

"Ugh, just get it over with already, douchebag," he hisses to himself, flicking the cigarette butt away.

He enters the house before he can change his mind, making long strides up the nearby flight of stairs. When he reaches the top, he hears the faint sounds of music coming from the very end of the hall, and something like a grin works its way onto his face.

He's here. 

He hurries over to the room, pokes his head into the entranceway, opening his mouth to say --

To say what, he isn't sure. 

What _should_ he say? "Hey, Michael, sorry I disappeared for a while, I was just out dying in the forest?"

He doubts that would go over well, even amongst his fellow morbid friends.

He draws back a bit, leaning against the door frame. 

Michael is laying in bed, flat on his back, gazing at the ceiling. He seems tired, and morose, more so than usual. His eyeliner appears to have been slept in, smudgy and fading away in places. 

He swallows a lump in his throat and manages a quiet "Michael?"

Too quiet. He could barely hear himself. He clears his throat and tries again.

"Hey, Michael. It's, uh. Me. Pete. I guess."

That wasn't lame at all.

Michael takes a moment before moving just his eyelids to see him.

"Hey," he breathes out.

He can't help but smile, a real one this time, wide and almost laughing. Relief he didn't realize how much he needed washing over him. "What, just 'hey'? I've --"

"Sorry I'm late," Firkle says, and walks straight through him to sit on the floor beside Michael.

The wash is turning into a flood and he's drowning in it. 

Of course.

That's Ghost 101, too. Can't be seen or heard by the living, either.

"Henrietta called."

"Yeah?"

"She said the storm's holding up their flight, and then started listing all of the ways she hates the airport. It took a while."

Michael sighs. "She would. You tell her I said hi?"

Firkle nods. "But you could tell her yourself if you turned your phone on."

"I've decided to free myself from the shackles of an overly-connected society."

"You're just being anti-social."

Michael shrugs, and Pete snaps out of his daze, blinking away the... the _whatever_ he was feeling just seconds ago.

He enters in after Firkle and sits on the edge of the bed, watching them both.

"So," Firkle starts, stretching the word in a way that makes the corner of Michael's lips twitch.

"Firkle."

"Have you --"

"Seriously."

"-- heard anything new?"

"God damn it, _no._ "

The kid glares at him from the floor. "I'm just asking."

"Do you really think I'd be laying around here if I did?"

Firkle shrugs.

"How could I even hear anything here anyway?"

"Well maybe if you turned your phone on."

Michael shoves himself upright. "You're worse than my mom! What's next, are you going to tell me to get out of the house more?"

"Dude."

"Dude," Pete agrees.

He sighs and falls back down onto his pillow. "Yeah, that was uncalled for. I just. I don't know."

Firkle watches him run his hand through his unruly curls. 

"You should still turn your phone on. What if... He might've tried calling?"

Pete stiffens, then looks away.

"I'm sure you would've gotten the same call," Michael mumbles as he turns over on his side.

He had hoped any conversation about him would have also involved him. Not this... This spying on his friends as they seem to struggle to get each word out.

"You know," he starts. "I probably would've called everybody by now if I could've, but that's not really the point. I think Firkle's right. This is kinda the wrong kind of moping."

The three of them sit quietly a few moments longer. 

"Seriously, both of you. Cut this shit out. You're starting to depress _me._ "

If anything, the collective mood seems to get worse.

"Ugh, look, I... My body's stashed in the woods, and I have no idea how it happened. I just wanna figure this all out. Same as you, probably."

He bites his lip as he looks at them.

"You guys are my friends. I need your help. _Please._ "

He doesn't expect an answer at this point, but the silence hurts nonetheless.

"Let's watch a movie," Firkle says, rolling a crumpled scrap of paper along the floor. "The Convent always cheers you up, right?"

Michael shrugs. "It's better than nothing."

"You guys do that," Pete stands, shaking his head. "I'm going to take a walk."

"Where'd you toss the remote?"

He leaves them to their quiet chatter, making his way to the front door.

He doesn't bother flipping his stubborn hair out of his eyes, doesn't bother digging through his pockets for his cigarettes, couldn't muster up the energy to do so even if he wanted. 

What now? 

Now that he can't touch or speak with anyone or anything? Go back into the woods and haunt it? Wander the earth as some lameass, lost soul? There has to be something he can do. After all, he's heard plenty of stories of ghosts interacting with people one way or another. What makes him so different from the others? 

Does he just need more time to develop powers beyond the Ghostly GPS? Repeated practice? The thoughts do not sit well with him. He doesn't have time to waste learning how to be a proper ghost.

The idea hits him as he wanders aimlessly. Sixth sense, that's what people that can see ghosts easily have. It might be possible that Michael and Firkle are just less spiritually inclined, he reasons. And if so, he just needs to find someone that isn't. But the local 'psychics' in South Park are all cold-reading fakes or elderly New Age types that wouldn't know a ghost from a leprechaun. He knows, they've visited them all before, hoping to find a real one and leaving disappointed each time.

So the 'professional' psychics are out. He'll need to find a private individual, and that could take longer than he's willing to wait.

After all, it's not like he _knows_ anyone that can easily commune with the de--

Oh.

"Aw, god damn it."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Henrietta'll be back from vacation within a chapter or two, don't worry. 
> 
> I'll be on vacation far away from my computer from the 16th to 25th, so I won't be able to start in on the next chapter until after then, sorry. See you next time, I hope!! (♥)


	3. Chapter 3

iii.

_I am a vampire_   
_I am a vampire_   
_Vampire_   
_I am a vampire_   
_I have lost my fangs_   
_-[Vampire, Antsy Pants](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pKcyYeZqlh4)_

 

Finding Mike Makowski is turning out to be a lot harder than he had originally thought it would be. With no Vampire Society meetings currently in session, and the Village Inn completely lacking in douchey plastic fangs and glitter, he has few other leads to go on. The Hot Topic at the mall had eventually reopened of course, but the vamp kids had collectively decided to visit the store in smaller numbers, instead of the large groups as they did before. Perhaps they had realized traveling in packs was obnoxious. Or perhaps they just wanted to draw less attention to the store so his own clique would have less reason to burn it down again.

Or something.

Pete can't quite follow their leap of logic on that one. Burning the store had done little to stop the vamp infestation in the long run, and he _did_ kind of apologize for it already. It wouldn't make sense to break their tentative truce by destroying the Hot Topic a second time. 

Still, even if the Hot Topic is no longer one of their major hangouts anymore, it almost always has at least one of the little poseurs picking up hair dye or overpriced t-shirts. If it isn't Mike himself, Pete is certain he'll be lead to him sooner or later. 

It's still early evening, but the sky is already painted in the pinks and yellows of a sunset. He is certain that all of those fanged straight-A students are finishing their homework and flocking to the mall even as he stands there thinking. He sets off for it, on the other side of town, keeping to the sidewalk instead of walking through buildings and fences as before. Even taking the 'long' way around, by the time he reaches it, the sun has not been set for very long. And just as he had suspected, the parking lot is steadily filling with vamp kids as they trickle into the building.

He keeps several feet between him and the trio ahead of him. Just because they can't see him following along, it doesn't mean he wants to actually get any closer than he has to. He watches out for Mike's familiar black and green hair as he wanders, unique enough among the vamp kids that he should be able to spot him from a distance, but comes up short. He passes by women with bright make-up offering free (with every hundred-dollar purchase) mini-makeovers at their stalls, a man with a bandaged hand passing out flowers and coupons to a flower shop, and store upon store filled with useless, overpriced garbage.

He is running out of patience.

Should he just sit in the corner of the Hot Topic until Mike decides he needs more hair dye? Eventually, Mike will pay the store a visit, but could Pete really stand to wait in there for as long as it took? The loud, radio-friendly music is already grating on his ears and he hasn't even gone through the entranceway yet. And what if someone besides Mike ended up spotting him hanging around in there?

Sure, he _might_ be able to avoid dealing with the guy again, but more likely he would just end up becoming known as the South Park Hot Topic Ghost. People would flock to the store for a chance to see him, turn him into some sort of attraction long after he splits, and management would surely find some way to profit off of it. And if his friends somehow found out that _he_ was the ghost?

He'd rather die.

Again, that is.

As Pete mulls over whether or not he could experience a second death, and just what that could entail, he sees a flash of hair and clunky jewelry streak into the store. He turns and peers inside after it, quickly spotting the newcomer flipping through a t-shirt stand with another kid in tow. Sides of his head shaved, and the rest of the long brown hair pulled into a ponytail. He knows this one.

"Alright, Larry," Pete says as he sidles up next to them. "You've been Mike's shadow for more than a year. You better at least give me a hint."

"This is the shirt he was talking about, right?" the other kid, a girl with more colors in her hair than may actually exist in nature, asks as she pulls one out from the middle of the pile.

"Yeah, that's it. Think it'll fit him?"

"I dunno. Call him and ask him what size he wears."

"Uh, that's out of the question. You see, our Dark Lord --"

Jackpot.

"-- is in the middle of a series of highly complex rituals and meditations that require the utmost concentration and total silence."

"What."

"What?" the girl echoes him.

"He, uh. He forgot to charge his phone again," Larry clarifies.

Pete groans.

"What a dork," she laughs.

"Ahaha, yeah, he's a dork. Total dork," Larry says quickly, taking the shirt from her, and a set of plastic fangs off a nearby rack. "You would not believe all the 'dorky Mike' stories I could tell you."

"Really? But, like, he's kind of a cute dork, you know? He's just _so_ stylish and --"

"Okay, so, let's just go give him his stuff," he interrupts. Pete manages to catch the brief look of disappointment on his face before he shuts it out.

"Larry, any girl that finds _Mike_ stylish isn't worth your time," Pete says, watching them check out. "Christ, I can't believe I'm giving advice to a vamp kid. At least he can't hear me."

He counts himself lucky that the two make a beeline for the exit instead of further window shopping. He ignores their conversations, trailing a few feet behind with a lit cigarette dangling from his lips. His eyes focus on their feet, making sure he doesn't lose them in the crowd of eyeliner, sparkles and dye. Quickly, they head out into the parking lot and walk further toward the edge of town.

The night sky has filled with thick, grey clouds heavy with snow. It won't be winter officially for over a month, but the weather seems to have other plans. The clouds seem close to bursting. Rain would have been better. A steady drizzle that lasts for hours. Pete wishes he could have lived somewhere with more rain than snow. 

"Are you sure he's in there?" the girl asks, almost a whisper.

Pete turns his attention back to them, noting that he has been led to the graveyard as he daydreamed. His lip curls. How _fitting._

"Yeah, he comes here all the time. If you're scared, you can hold my hand."

"Oh, my god."

"I'm not scared! But um, I think I will. But only so we don't get separated. _Not_ because I'm scared."

"Right, of course."

"Seriously, what do you see in her? She looks like she fell out of a Lisa Frank painting, ugh."

They are blessedly silent as they walk through the cemetery, staying on the poorly lit path. After traveling quite a distance in, Larry pauses beneath a lamp post. The light is dim, but in the absence of the moon or stars, it seems all the brighter.

"I think I see him now. You wait here, okay? We have some, like, Inner-Circle Vampire Society stuff to discuss before we leave. It's top secret."

"Oh! Wow, okay."

Pete rolls his eyes and walks alongside him. They stop half-way through the row.

"Get off of there, dumbass," Pete hisses under his breath.

Sitting cross-legged on the end of a large tombstone shaped like a casket is Mike, his back turned to them. A gas lantern sits on the opposite end, casting dancing shadows as the flame inside flickers. And scattered both atop and around the tombstone are books, notepads and pens. It's a mess.

His jaw clenches at the sight. It would have pissed him off even before he died.

But there's no time for anger, not right now. He strides forward, past Larry, to stand in front of Mike.

"Mike," both he and the other say at the same time.

"Fangs," Mike responds, holding out his hand without looking at either of them.

"I got 'em. Let me just find --"

" _Fangs_ ," Mike hisses, shaking his hand until Larry digs the plastic fangs out of the Hot Topic bag and drops them into his hand.

Pete watches as Mike fits the fangs around his teeth, noting with some bemusement the contented sigh and wave of relief that takes over Mike's face once they're properly in place.

"You have done me a great service tonight, Larry," Mike says, finally turning to face him.

"Okay, great, you look like a douchebag again. Mike, listen up, I have to tell you something."

Mike's eyes flicker toward Pete's direction for only a moment before he continues, one hand over his heart. "And I am _eternally_ in your debt."

"No problem. T-shirt and snacks are in the bag, too," Larry says, passing the bag along. He reaches into his pocket and begins to pull out his wallet.

"Mike."

"Thanks. Hey, keep the change. Delivery fee."

"Mike Makowski."

He looks at him briefly.

"Sweet. Hey, how did your whole, 'communing with the souls of the dead' thing go?"

"Hey, Count Fagula, I'm talking to you! Stop ignoring me."

He gets another blink-and-you'll-miss-it glance.

"Thats... inconclusive, per se."

Pete has never lit a cigarette so aggressively before now, shoving the stick in his mouth to keep from completely losing his cool and letting spill a few more choice words.

"A few more sessions to truly get in tune with the departed should prove enlightening."

"That better be code for 'I'll talk to you later.'"

"For now," Mike begins to shove his belongings into a backpack. "We must leave. That essay Mr. Logan assigned is due soon and I haven't even started yet."

Larry shakes his head. "I hear he gives those every other week. I am _not_ looking forward to that part of junior high."

"I can't believe this," Pete grumbles. "Fine, I'm coming with you. Mike, if you know what's good for you, you'll pay attention to me when we get to your place."

True to his word, Pete tags along with the three of them until they reach an intersection and say their goodbyes. Larry and the rainbow-haired girl head off down one street, and Mike watches until they round the corner before he continues on his own way. He walks just long enough to reach a shop, stopping in front of it to look at his reflection in the large windows.

"Okay, I know you've been following me since we left the graveyard."

"Ugh, finally! Listen, I'm dead -- obviously -- and I need help," Pete begins quickly.

"And I am _truly_ honored that you have chosen to come to me, per se --"

"Actually, you were my last choice --"

"But my mother really doesn't like it when I bring back ghosts to the house, so I think we should go our separate ways now."

Pete stares at him.

"Next time I do a summoning, I'll make sure I leave enough time to talk. Honestly, I didn't think it worked at all. I guess it just took a while for the message to reach you?" he laughs nervously, shifting from foot to foot.

"Summ-- You didn't summon me, I followed your lackeys from the mall!"

"So, um. Begone?"

"Fuck no, I spent a whole day tracking you down."

"I release you from your, er, whatever's keeping you tied to me?"

"Are you listening to me?"

"Look, you don't have to go back to the graveyard, but you can't follow me home. The last ghost that followed me home slept on our couch for three weeks and drank all our coffee, and my dad made me pay for it out of my allowance."

"Do you even know who it is you're talking to? It's _Pete_."

Mike stares at him for a moment, then shrugs. "Okay, well, I think I've said all that needs to be said, and I'm sure you see the logic in it, and will be leaving shortly. Goodnight, spirit."

"Aw, god _damn it_!" Pete yells as Mike turns on his heel and continues to walk. "No, no, you are not getting rid of me that easily."

He follows behind him, fuming, as Mike leads him to his home.

'Begone', please, like he's going to just take an order like that from this douchebag.

And doesn't it figure that the one person that knows he exists still can't see or hear him? Just his luck. Now he'll need to find some way to get the guy to understand him.

He notes Mike's address as he reaches the house, the numbers freshly painted in gold, the frame around them decorated with hand painted silver stars. He isn't quite sure what to expect inside the house, and steels himself for anything. What sort of residence could have housed him? What sort of insane, freakish family could have spawned and raised Mike Makowski?

He enters and it's --

Well, it's by no means a normal house, not with the dried herbs and flowers hanging in bunches along the walls. Not with the partially melted candles in varying colors sitting upon every shelf, or the overabundance of wooden furniture that looks as if it might be hand-carved, giving each room a rustic feel. No, it may not be normal, but it's... not that bad. It perhaps tries too hard to be different, he thinks, but it's at least marginally better than the same old, cookie cutter houses filling the rest of South Park. One of the many disadvantages of living in a quiet little mountain town was that everyone shopped at the same stores, and so everyone had a few pieces of furniture or decor that matched someone else's.

As Mike leaves the front entrance, cutting through the living room, he yells out that he has returned home, running up a flight of stairs without waiting for a response. Pete follows behind at a more leisurely pace, catching the muffled 'welcome back' from somewhere deeper within the house. Odd, he thinks. Don't the parents of straight-A students generally send the police out to search for them after dark? But the woman that answered his call -- Mike's mother? -- didn't seem to have a note of worry in her voice.

It doesn't matter to him, though, he decides as they enter a room that has to be Mike's. How could it not be, with the Twilight posters on the walls, black throw rug with a simple bat pattern in the middle of the floor, the tacky sculpture of a raven perched on a skull on the dresser, the... cowboy hat-wearing-dinosaur curtains on the window? 

Well, he certainly wasn't expecting that one. 

"I told you to go away," Mike hisses under his breath as he upends his backpack onto his desk, the contents spilling out onto it and the floor. "You were supposed to go back to the graveyard, or the spirit world, or heaven or, or --"

"Yeah, well, I didn't," Pete says, walking through the desk to stand in the center of it, directly in Mike's view. He crosses his arms. "So what are we going to do about this?"

"I have homework to do, go away."

Pete glares at him. He doesn't know what he looks like to Mike, a blur, or an energy beam, or a dumbass floating white sheet, but the message has to be getting across to him.

Mike bites at a fingernail, pacing the length of his room. "I won't be able to get any work with you hovering around like that. You've gotta --" 

He cuts himself off with a growl, then a huff as he crosses his arms, squeezing his eyes tightly as his fingers drum against his arms. Just as suddenly, he sighs, letting his arms fall loose and his eyes roll. 

He crosses the short distance to the door and yells through it. "Mom? _Mom!_ "

"Are you-- You can't be serious."

Only a moment later, she appears, drying her hands on a paint-splattered towel. Her hair is black and short, looking as though it had been stylishly trimmed with a lawnmower. An apron, covered with just as much paint as the towel, sits atop a flowing black skirt that brushes against the floor. There's definitely a heavy family resemblance between them, in both appearance and fashion sense. No wonder Mike turned out the way he did, if his mother is as... _odd_ as he is.

"What is it, sweetie?"

Mike laughs nervously. "You know how you told me not to, er, bring home any more ghosts, per se?"

"What did you do?" her tone flattens immediately, and Pete can't suppress the grin that appears as he watches Mike flinch.

"Nothing, I swear! I was just reading in the graveyard, and it, well. It appeared when I was leaving and sort of... followed me home."

His mother raises an eyebrow.

"Honest! I even told it that it couldn't come with me! But it's not listening to reason."

"Has it moved any furniture? Made any noises?"

He shakes his head. "No, it just keeps following me around like a puppy."

"Hey!"

"Okay. You wait right there," she says and disappears back downstairs.

"I'm not some lost dog. Try listening for once, douchebag. I don't want to be here any more than you want me to, but I don't have a choice."

"Here you go," his mother tosses something into Mike's arms.

"What's in here?" he asks, turning the spray bottle over in his hands.

"Blessed salt water. Just give it a spritz or two and you shouldn't have any more problems."

"What." Pete deadpans.

"Like with Buttercup?"

" _Exactly_ like with Buttercup," his mother winks.

"Who the fuck is Buttercup?"

"Sweet! Thanks, Mom."

She nods and gives him a half wave as she turns to leave. "I'll be finishing up in the basement. Let me know if you need anything else."

"'Kay."

He gives the bottle another turn in his hands before he faces Pete. "Alright, you heard her. This is your last chance to leave on your own."

"Fuck you."

Mike waits a moment more before sighing and raising the spray bottle level with Pete.

"That's not going to --"

If he had any breath to begin with, he would have lost it all from the impact. He felt dizzy, oddly sick, and then everything went dark.

When his eyes fluttered open again, the mid-morning sun was shining brightly down upon him, and to the left of him, his corpse.

It took him a few moments to piece together what had happened, and when it finally all clicked --

" _That motherfucker._ "

Screw Arizona, he'll FedEx that fucker down to Guatemala for this. He'll... he'll...

He sighs. 

He'll do nothing until he's at least partially tangible.

"Damn it. God _damn_ it."

He lights a cigarette and begins walking back to town. What other choice does he have but to try again?

\---

"How many times are you going to keep doing this?" Mike asks, leveling the bottle at him.

"I swear to god, if you spray me with that shit one more time, I'm going to break all of your teeth."

"It's been a week! You've followed me to school, hung around all my classes, you crashed our Vampire Society meeting."

"Believe me, I wish I didn't."

"And this stuff only keeps you away for a few hours! Why do you keep coming back?"

Pete rolls his eyes, moving to inspect Mike's bookshelf. The typical vampire aficionado's reading list was all present, Dracula, Twilight, the complete works of Anne Rice and Edgar Allen Poe. Next to them sit books on the paranormal, a beginner's tarot manual, and various Stephen King novels.

"I know you've only got a couple brain cells knocking around in that thick skull of yours, but try getting them to work for a change, okay?"

"Is it... Do you need something? From me?" He lowers the bottle to his side.

"See, I knew you could put an intelligent thought together."

"But if you need something, why haven't you told me what it is so I can help you? Unless..."

"Come on, try and work it out," he coaxes.

"Unless you can't? You can't do anything but hover there, is that it?"

"God, it's like watching a baby try to take their first steps."

He sets the bottle on his desk and clasps his hands behind his back, pacing in a slow circle.

"So I need to do something that can... what, let you talk? Or have more of a presence?" he says to himself, words quickly becoming too softly mumbled for Pete to hear.

Pete watches him carefully. He isn't sure what Mike is thinking about, but he's definitely thinking about _something, finally,_ and that's good enough for him. So long as he keeps his focus and doesn't go wildly off track, this might just work.

"I think," Mike starts slowly, stopping in the middle of the room. "I think I know what to do. Kind of. I mean, I've never done it before, per se, but theoretically," he trails off.

"Theoretically is good enough for me. Whatever you've got, just do it already."

Mike kneels to the floor, rolling aside his throw rug. He runs his hands along the wood paneling until he hits a ridge, and begins to pull up on it, revealing an empty space beneath the floorboards.

"My parents don't really like when I use this stuff, but they'll be gone until the end of the day, so..."

"Hiding things from mommy and daddy, huh?" Pete says, watching him pull pieces of chalk, candles, small pouches, and a thick, aged book from within the compartment, then replacing the cover. "I didn't think you had it in you."

He flips through the old book, its pages yellowed and cracking with each turn. Finally, he settles on a page covered in tiny, handwritten script and and diagrams.

"Yeah, I think this is it."

Pete leans over his shoulder, squinting at the text. "That kind of looks legit. I'm not an expert, but I've seen some crazy old spell books before, and... You do know what you're doing, right?"

"This should make it easier for you to communicate with me," Mike says. "That, or begin a zombie uprising, but I think my chances are good."

Pete shakes his head in disgust. "That answers that."

"Hey, can you move over there?" Mike says, pointing at the opposite end of the room. "I need some space to draw this stuff."

"Yeah, yeah," he grumbles, moving to sit against the wall.

"Thanks."

With that, Mike pays no further attention to him, focusing entirely on copying the symbols and diagrams in his book onto the floor with his chalk. He lights candles along the edges, spreads some of the contents of the pouches along the inside of the circle he's drawn. Herbs, crystals, and --

"Jesus Christ, Mike, are those bones? Do you just blindly poke the unknown with a stick on a regular basis?"

Mike analyzes the arrangement for a few moments before placing one hand inside the circle, the index finger of his other tapping a line in the book. 

"Please, don't be evil," he says, looking up at Pete. "I really don't want to explain to my parents how we ended up with _another_ poltergeist."

"If you end up summoning a demon, I'm letting it eat you."

"Alright, here goes," Mike says, and begins reading from the book.

Pete doesn't know the language. Latin, some of it, but mixed with something else unrecognizable to him. Something old, unlike any language he has heard before. It does not take long before he feels himself become groggy, the words jumbling into each other in a soothing rhythm that makes his eyelids feel heavy, his everything feel heavy, and his head begins to nod.

It feels like only a moment has passed when his eyes flutter open again, but a glance at the candles show at least an inch has burned down. Fast-melting, or has that much time really passed? Mike, still staring down at his book, seems to have finished speaking. Dark bags have appeared under his eyes, and he seems to be struggling to keep them open. Perhaps it has taken a while.

"Okay," Mike breathes, taking his hand off the floor and starting to raise his head up to look at him. "Okay, I think that's -- _holy shit!_ "

He scrambles backward in an awkward crab walk until he hits the wall. Pete raises an eyebrow at him.

"Pete?" he whispers, his voice faltering mid-word.

"Well it's about time."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for your patience. My vacation went well, but it took a lot longer to get everything back to normal after all that travel, thus the delay. 
> 
> Buttercup is Mike's cat, I'm sure he'll show up at least once.
> 
> Henrietta will absolutely be in the next chapter, as will the rest of the goth kids. It'll be nice to get them all back together again, right? I mean, it has to be that easy, now that Pete's visible, right? 
> 
> ...Right?
> 
> ;)
> 
> Thank you all for your bookmarks, kudos, subs, and likes on Tumblr. I really appreciate it! If anyone has any feedback, I'm always willing to take it, especially if you think there needs to be improvements somewhere. See you soon, I hope! (♥)


	4. Chapter 4

iv.

_Well, when I called her evil_  
_She just laughed._  
_And cast that spell on me._  
_Boo Bitch Craft._  
_-[Black No. 1 (Little Miss Scare-All), Type O Negative](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kYxIMOODrvg)_  


While watching Mike's wordless sputters and vague hand gestures is amusing at first, Pete quickly feels his patience beginning to run out.

"Okay, look, I know I'm not who you were expecting, but can we move past this? I've had to follow you around for a week until you figured out I wasn't haunting you just for the hell of it and needed... whatever that was," he says, with a wave of his hand at the display on the floor. "I'm not in the mood to keep waiting until you stop freaking out."

Mike's gaping mouth finally closes, and Pete can hear him swallowing heavily. "Right. Okay. But if you're the ghost, then... Are you really?"

"Dead. Yeah. My body's stashed somewhere in the forest, and I have no idea how it all happened."

"You've been gone almost three weeks," he says, with a nod. "Everyone thought you ran away. It even made the local news."

"I didn't run away," he says, rolling his eyes.

Or at least, he thinks he didn't run away. Sure, he's thought about leaving South Park. Who in his position wouldn't? But he never considered _running away._ How far could he have ever gotten on his own, with no money, no plan and no place to stay? There was a difference between being occasionally reckless, and being _stupid._ Of course, there is still the problem that he really doesn't remember what had happened to him in that time. Could something have actually prompted him to run away? He supposes he will have to at least hold it as a possibility until he gets more information.

"Then what --"

He holds up his hand to interrupt. "I told you, I don't know. I can't remember anything that happened before I woke up in the woods. I came back to South Park to get some answers."

"I don't know anything about this!"

"I _know_ you don't, idiot," he huffs, lighting a cigarette. He watches with some amusement as Mike frowns at the wisps of smoke rising off the tip, wonders if he can smell the tobacco too. "Why would you? All I needed you to do was figure out a way so that people could actually hear me. And look at that, you did. Congratulations, it's the first useful thing you've ever done."

The frown doesn’t leave Mike’s face, but to his credit he doesn’t start whining. Listening to the vamp complain is the last thing Pete needs. Instead, Mike asks, "So what are you going to do now?"

"Find my friends. They've got to know something."

Mike nods, his demeanor beginning to change. His shoulders relax, frown evens out to a more neutral expression. Is he relieved? What on earth would he have to feel relieved about? 

"Alright. Well, uh. Good luck with that, per se."

Pete holds in a scoff. He probably just doesn't want to do any more work than he already has. Doesn't want to put in any more effort into it. Not that it matters much to Pete. The lazy vamp did his part, and as far as he's concerned, that's where Mike's involvement began and ended. The less he has to see his face, the better.

"Yeah, whatever. Thanks for _that,_ " he points toward the spell work on the floor once again. "But I'm outta here."

He flips his hair out of his eyes as he turns to walk out of the room, leaving Mike behind to clean up his mess. Pete walks through the hall, nodding to the large cat that sits perched at the top of the stairs. Too big, and too mean, he was the only living being in the Makowski household that had seemed to be fully aware of his presence before Mike's ritual. The cat gives an idle swipe at his leg, then pads down the stairs just ahead of him, leading him to the front door where it waits expectantly once again. 

"Later, Buttercup," Pete says, then walks through the door into the evening light.

It doesn't feel any different, although now that he thinks about it some more, he isn't sure it was ever supposed to. He had thought that there would have been some sort of change to... to something, anything around him. Something in the air, in the light from the sun. That maybe he would have been able to feel warm sunlight on his skin again. But nothing has changed. The only difference is that he's visible again. Well. That's good enough. It's what he wanted, isn't it?

Still.

He wishes he had died in a jacket.

He hadn't felt the cold before, not when he had first woke up dead, but the past couple days he has started to feel a chill beneath his skin where his bones should be. Maybe, he thinks, the weather is finally getting cold enough even for the dead to feel it.

The cigarette gives off no heat, just leaves a trail of scent behind him as he walks down the familiar streets. Turn right here, make a left there. Keep going on for a few more blocks until —

There.

Once again, Pete finds himself at a stop on Michael's doorstep. It should be easier now, this coming and going inside houses without opening the door. And in some ways it is. He has followed Mike all week, and whenever that got too boring, or mind-numbingly stupid, invited himself into the neighbor's houses to look around. It's different, when it's the house of someone he knows. When it's his friend.

But he has waited way too long for this, and isn't going to waste time sitting on the porch going through a whole pack of cigarettes again before he works up the nerve to go in. He takes a deep breath, and walks inside.

A television plays somewhere off to his right, and he can hear Michael's parents talking in the living room. He ignores them, making his way to the stairs. Nothing is going to distract him, not when he's finally, finally so close to getting what he wants. He takes the stairs two at a time.

He has to do this; has to do this _now._

Pete hears the faint sound of music coming from the end of the hall and knows Michael is there. He doesn't wait in front of the bedroom door, doesn't see if he can knock on the door, just walks through, walks into the room and lets words pour out of his mouth like a stream.

" _Michael!_ Michael, I'm sorry, it's me, I'm sorry it took so long, everything's been so fucked up lately and it took way too long to figure this shit out, but I'm here and I mi--"

Abruptly, the flow of words stops when he notices that Michael has not moved from his spot on his bed. Laying down, laptop in his lap, his eyes stay glued to the screen. He obviously isn't asleep, there are no earbuds in his ears.

"Michael?" Pete's voice cracks, and something inside his chest clenches and wrings while everything else around him seems to shatter. His breaths, unnecessary or not, come out ragged and quick.

He runs to Michael's side, waves his hand in front of his eyes.

No response. Not a blink, not a twitch. No recognition that he even exists.

"No. _No!_ " he turns around sharply, stomps his foot into the floor. "You're supposed to see me now! Why can't you see me? Why?" He drops onto his knees, screaming through grit teeth. "It's not fair! One thing... I just wanted this _one thing._ " 

He makes a noise like a whine and a groan, and just as quickly it falters as he begins to choke. He feels his throat tighten, something heavy and thick wrapping tight around it. A snake preparing to consume him.

In the back of his mind, his own voice, quiet and disgusted, chides him for throwing such a tantrum. What was he even doing? Screaming and kicking at the ground like some spoiled brat that wasn't going to get a treat at the grocery store. Like that was going to help anything.

He swallows heavily, then again, forcing it to go past the lump in his throat until the tightness fades and he can breathe easily again. 

He rubs his shirt sleeve over his face as he slowly stands again.

He doesn't have to look over his shoulder to know that Michael had not heard his outburst. Whatever he is going to do next, it will not be here.

\---

Pete finds Mike with his head in the toilet, and waits for the retching to stop before he spits out, "What the hell is wrong with you?"

He wipes his mouth with a tissue and drops it into the bowl. The bags under his eyes have not gotten any lighter since Pete saw him last. "I don't think that ritual agreed with me, per se."

"Oh good, you _can_ see me."

"Um, yeah. Why wouldn't I? That was the whole point," he replies, giving him a strange look before he grabs a bottle of mouthwash off the bathroom counter and takes a swig, swishing it around.

Pete huffs. "Well it didn't work right, douchebag. No one else knows I'm around."

Maybe. He hadn't exactly tried to see if anyone besides Michael could see him. But honestly, if he couldn't see Pete, what was the point?

"Weird," Mike says, brushing past him.

"Is that all you have to say? Hey, jackass, I'm talking to you! Your spell didn't work!"

"I think it did. Just not the way either of us expected it to."

Pete makes a grab for his collar, grunting as he phases straight through him. "Well that's not good enough. I have to talk to them. Make it work."

Pete watches him grab a set of pajamas, then turns before he starts to change. That is one thing he definitely does not need to see. 

"Look," Mike starts behind him. "I'm sorry it didn't work right. I really, really am. I'm not... _happy_ that you aren't able to talk to your friends. And if I could read dead languages better, I'd go through the book and try to figure out what went wrong. But I'm not. Honestly, it's kind of a miracle that anything happened at all, per se. So I don't know what it is you want me to do about it."

Pete chances a look and finding him dressed, turns back around. He opens his mouth and waits for words to come to him. There is nothing this time, and eventually he sighs and lets it close again. "I don't know either," he grumbles, lighting a cigarette and shoving it in his mouth. He puffs on it, looking around the room as he tries to gather his thoughts. He can't yet weigh his options, because he doesn't even know what they all are yet. He sure as hell isn't about to quit, or live some life in spiritual solitude for the rest of eternity, that was for damn sure. But what else is left?

His skin prickles with the sensation of being watched and he sets his sights back on Mike. Pete scowls again, seeing that Mike has been... what? Staring at him? No, not even that. "Don't look at me like that."

"I --"

"I don't want any pity from you," he spits out, flicking ashes from the end of his cigarette at him, and scowling further as they disappear before they can reach him.

"Sure. Whatever. I'm going to bed. Just think about what it is you want and let me know tomorrow or something, okay?"

Pete watches him slide into bed, when a thought hits him. "Tomorrow," he repeats. "Tomorrow is Monday."

"Reason number two why I'm going to sleep. School in the morning," he says, voice quickly turning into a mumble as he rolls over.

"Tomorrow," Pete starts, walking straight into the center of the bed and standing through Mike's torso. He can't help but grin at the startled yelp and shudder that follows as the vamp jolts upright, giving him his full attention. "My friends will be at the Village Inn. We go on other days, but we _never_ miss a Monday. You're going to go there, and you're going to talk to them for me."

"W-what?"

"Go there after school, and tell them what I've told you. Let them know that I'm... I'm still here, and I need their help. We can figure it out from there."

"Alright, fine! Just s-stop turning my insides to ice already and I'll do it!"

Pete raises an eyebrow at him and backs away, watching in bemusement as Mike draws the blankets up closer to himself, then flops back down onto his side. His grumbles about 'stupid ghosts' and 'respecting personal boundaries' and 'common decency' quickly turning into quiet snores. Had he really caused Mike a chill just by walking through him? He hadn't gotten that sort of reaction out of him before, or anyone else for that matter.

It's hard to feel any sort of guilt for him, though.

"I'm a lot colder than you are, asshole," he mutters, then moves to the window. 

He'll wait out the night watching the stars.

Again.

\---

"Are you sure they'll listen to me?" Mike asks, watching the goth kids from a distance. Just as Pete had said, the three of them have made their trip to the Village Inn. They sit on a concrete bumper in the parking lot, paper cups of coffee in hand. Pete doesn't have to look into the building to know it is too crowded for them tonight, the fact that they are out here, and not sitting in their usual booth is proof enough.

He shrugs. "You got a better idea?"

"I was hoping you'd come up with one that doesn't involve me talking to the three people that hate me more than anything else, per se."

"Don't be so full of yourself. I'm sure there's something out there we hate just a little bit more than you. Probably."

Pete laughs to himself as Mike huffs, crossing his arms and rolling his eyes in his own silent temper tantrum. The guy was so used to being worshiped by his mindless lackeys that even the slightest jab seems to get under his skin. Good.

"Alright, well. I guess I'll just... Go on over," he says, taking the first step.

"Yeah, you do that Fagula. Just don't screw it up for me." 

He follows alongside him, keeping a couple feet between them. A cigarette already hangs from his lips, the tobacco helping to ease his nerves. In truth, he doesn't know if his friends will let Mike get a single word out, let alone the whole story he has to tell them. This could end badly for him. And as for Mike, well. Pete can't say he really cares much how _he'll_ end up.

"Um, hi," Mike starts, stopping a short distance in front of them. 

Pete stifles a chuckle at the resulting 'fuck off,' 'what do you want,' and 'go away, loser,' that tumbles from his friends' mouths almost simultaneously. Their contempt was a familiar comfort. Not even a month ago he would have been sitting right next to them, spitting out his own insults. He has to remain silent now, though. Mike doesn't look half as self-assured as he usually does. He'd rather not distract him or throw him off any more than he already will be. They might only have the one shot at this.

"Yeah, nice to see you too. Look, I know we're not on the best of terms, but I kind of really need to talk to you. It's important. See, I -- hm. I've thought about this all day, and I still don't know how to put it," he starts muttering to himself, and Pete sees his friends' already thin patience begin to wear down. 

Mike might not be able to tell, but he can see it in the way Firkle's eyes go ever-so-slightly blank, likely thinking of all the ways Mike could be _creatively_ forced to shut up. In the way that Henrietta's perfectly made-up lips thin and tighten as they press into each other. In the way Michael's nostrils flare and jaw clenches as he tries to keep himself from snapping at him.

"Fucking get on with it," Pete orders.

"Right! Uh. See, I have some... bad news," he continues. "Or, maybe slightly good news, if you're really, _really_ optimistic about it, per se. Oh. But you're never optimistic, and... Actually, I think this is probably really bad news no matter how you look at --"

"Will you fucking spit it out already?" Henrietta yells at him, slamming her paper cup onto the ground. "News about _what?_ "

He flinches. "Um. Pete."

Pete fully expects the 'bullshit,' and 'how would you know anything,' that come from Henrietta and Firkle. Michael's very quiet, 'what do you know?' is much less expected. But it is exactly what he had been hoping for.

"Okay, you have his attention, now _don't_ screw this up for me."

"Um. First of all, this is a very 'don't kill the messenger' sort of situation, per se. I don't --"

" _What,_ " Michael begins again, standing up. "Do you _know?_ "

The air has changed, and every one of them can feel it. There's a tension there, a tightly coiled metal spring on the verge of snapping between them. For a moment, Pete thinks that perhaps he isn't the only one to have stopped breathing. Even the remaining leaves stopped murmuring in the breeze, and the silence drums and pounds in his ears. 

"He-- He's dead," Mike breaks the silence, and it's like a dam has burst; his words coming out in a quick flood. "He died. I don't know how, he doesn't know how, but his ghost has been haunting me for a week and he tried to contact you first but he can't talk to you for some reason so he wanted me to talk to you so you could help him with, with, I don't know what with, but he, um. Hm."

And just as suddenly the flood dries up, leaving Mike fumbling for words that had come far too easily a moment earlier, wringing his hands together uncertainly. Firkle's cigarette has fallen into a pile of slush, extinguished. Henrietta's anger has melted away into a blank stare, her eyes wide and unfocused. And Michael...

The temperature around them has plummeted, and Pete doesn't think it's entirely his fault this time. Michael seems to be trembling in place, jaw locked firmly shut. 

"That isn't funny," Michael says after a very long, uncomfortable moment.

Pete has never seen him look so furious as he does now. He inhales sharply, taking a few steps away from Mike to move behind Michael and closer to his other friends. Intangible or not, he does not want to be in the middle of whatever is going to come from this.

"I know? I'm not-- He really needs help," he shrinks into himself with each word, and Michael, already taller, too tall for his age really, seems to loom over him, takes a quick, long step to close the gap between them. 

"That isn't funny!" This time, Michael's words are accompanied by his fist. Mike stumbles backwards, he couldn't have been expecting that, and certainly could not have expected to be tackled to the ground right after. 

Pete flinches at the blows that come next. This had not gone at all like he had planned. Insults, sure. Disbelief, of course. But he hadn't counted on Mike getting the shit kicked out of him. Mike was supposed to be good with people, wasn't he? Pete was certain he would have been able to talk three people without screwing it up this badly. Work them through the initial disbelief until they came around. Well. Maybe it would have worked on another group. His friends weren't anything like the average people, after all.

Though Pete can't enjoy the scene in front of him, not like this, not when he knows that, for once, Mike hadn't actually done anything to deserve the beating, he can't bring himself to blame Michael for it. He thinks he might have reacted the same way, if someone had told him that _his_ best friend was dead. He shifts from one foot to the other, unsure of what to do next. It's not like he can ask anyone else for advice. He wonders if he's going to have to abandon his search for answers. Just settle into an unlife of boredom. The thought weighs uncomfortably in his stomach.

He's pulled out of his thoughts when he spots a flash of black out of the corner of his eye, and sees Firkle leap up to join in. 

_Shit._

Michael, for all of his aggression, has some self control.

Michael, unlike Firkle, wasn't prone to carrying weapons.

"Wai-- Firkle, no! Stay out of it!" Pete makes a grab for Firkle's shoulder, curses again when he comes up with nothing. He'll never get used to that. He turns to Henrietta. "Henri! Hey, do something!"

The weight in his stomach lifts when her eyes flutter, finally coming back into focus. 

"What?" she looks around, quickly noticing the fight only a short distance ahead of her. She too leaps to her feet. "What the _hell_ is --"

He doesn't have to worry about whether she is going to join the others or not. From out of the Village Inn runs two uniformed employees, each yelling out at them, threatening to call the police.

"Hey!" Henrietta yells, grabbing Michael by the collar, Firkle by the ear and hauling them both back off of Mike in one rough yank. "We're getting out of here, _now,_ " she hisses at them.

The reluctance, just as much as the anger, is evident in their expressions. But neither of them, Pete thinks, is looking forward to dealing with the police, and so at Henrietta's instruction, the three of them run. 

He sighs, watching them go. He wants nothing more than to run after them, his every instinct tells him to _go,_ that he _should_ be going. He doesn't want to deal with cops either, even if they are the same incompetent group that's patrolled South Park for years. But he doesn't have to anymore. It's not a problem for him to deal with. No, his problems are much larger. And more annoying.

He trudges back over to Mike, squats down beside him, looking for a knife wound, or any other indication that Firkle had struck him with anything but fists. There is blood, and his face was definitely going to have one hell of a set of bruises soon, but nothing seems life-threatening.

"You okay, kid?" one of the staff member asks, checking him over as well. "We'll get an ambulance out here."

"No... I wanna go home," Mike says between sniffs. 

"Alright, alright. Let's get you inside and call your parents. They'll know what to do with you. Can you walk?"

Mike grunts something and begins to sit upright. 

Not dead, making complete sentences, and soon to be in his parents' hands. That's good enough for him. Pete leaves him to the Village Inn workers, lighting a cigarette for himself. The whole thing had gone to shit, and his friends are nowhere to be seen. There's no chance in hell they'll even let Mike breathe near them after this, let alone listen to him again. 

Still... There was one part of the whole ordeal that had given him hope. He supposes it's worth looking into.

\---

He knows where they will run to. And though he's several minutes behind them, he can take a much more direct route to Henrietta's house. He strides through fences, garages, and living rooms and when he finally has them back in his sights, watches them slink into her front door, he only has to cross the street to catch up to them. 

There is no steeling himself this time, no deep breaths or cigarettes to calm his nerves this time. He follows them inside, takes the stairs to Henrietta's room two at a time, and is sitting himself down on the rug just a moment after they finish settling themselves in.

Michael is sitting on Henrietta's bed, shoving her pillows around until he finds an arrangement that suits him enough to fall sideways onto.

"That lying piece of shit," he hisses. "How... _dare_ he, that, that," he ends with a growl, burying his face in the silk pillowslips.

"You want me to bandage your hands?" Firkle asks, sitting on the floor beside him. When he doesn't respond, Firkle shrugs and leans against the bed frame, staring up at the ceiling. 

And Henrietta... Pete watches her closely, trying to read her features. She too is staring off at nothing in particular, although unlike Firkle, she appears to be lost in thought. She puffs on her cigarette, filtered through its holder, and slowly releases the smoke in a long sigh.

"Mike Makowski is trash," she says at last, her eyes following the wisps of smoke as they twirl up above their heads. "But I swear, for a moment, I thought I heard Pete."

"I knew it!" Pete leaps to his feet, rushing to her side. "You did hear me. I'm right here."

"What are you saying?" Michael asks, voice low. "Don't tell me you're taking him seriously."

She shrugs. "I'm just saying. It sounded like he was talking right in my ear."

"I was!"

"What'd you hear?" Firkle asks, leaning forward, as Michael groans into the pillows again.

Henrietta frowns at him, then looks back to Firkle with a shrug. "Just my name. But it _was_ his voice. Clear as day."

"So what do you think?"

She taps her cigarette against an ashtray, her lips twitching as she tries to keep a neutral expression. "I don't know."

"He's full of shit," Michael says, partially muffled. "Pete's not... There's no ghost. I can't believe we're even having this discussion."

Henrietta huffs, opening her mouth to snap back at him, when Firkle interrupts, "Mike _did_ summon the ghost of Edgar Allen Poe that one time, though."

"There is that."

"Look," Michael pushes himself up to face them both. "Even _if_ Fagula's been talking to some ghost, that doesn't mean he's talking to Pete. It could be fucking _anyone._ "

"That is a really good point," Pete says. "But completely wrong."

Henrietta stands and walks to her closet, slamming it open. "Fine. Then let's just test it. We can figure it out ourselves. And if it turns out Mike is full of shit, then we'll know for sure."

Michael raises an eyebrow at her, confusion written all over his face until realization dawns upon him. "Are you serious?"

She pulls out a thin cardboard box. "Yes."

He runs a hand through his messy tangle of curls, shaking his head all the while. "Firkle, you're with me on this one, aren't you? It's just bullshit. That's why you joined in, right?"

"Actually," Firkle starts with a tiny grin. "I just really wanted to punch him."

"I don't blame you," Pete nods.

Firkle shrugs and continues. "I don't know. If Mike was lying, then we can kill him. If something else was lying to _him,_ we can kill _it._ And if..."

"Do what you want," Michael snaps and falls back onto his side. "I'm going to sleep."

Henrietta, ignoring him completely, has already set up her Ouija board on the floor beside her. She holds a pad of paper and a pen and extends them to Firkle. "You want to write the letters down for me?"

Firkle nods, scooting next to her. Pete shifts himself, sitting at the opposite side of the board.

"Alright," she says, leaning her cigarette above the ashtray before setting her fingers on the planchette. "Let's get this started."

"I guess I should, uh. I put my hands on this too, right?" Pete gives the device a questioning look before doing just that. 

"Listen up, I'm going to skip the usual formalities here. There's only one person we want to talk to right now. Mike _fucking_ Makowski came by to let us know that _someone_ is contacting him, and he thinks that that someone is our friend Pete. So if anyone else but him is hanging around, fuck right off because we're not interested in hearing from you. So," she pauses, bites her lip. "Are you here?"

Pete grins at her straightforward introduction, still puzzling over the Ouija board. "I'm here. I'm here, I just don't know how to move this thing yet."

It takes a few moments before he can figure out how to place his fingers on the planchette without slipping through it and into the board, into the floor. When he finally does, when he finally sets them down in a way that feels almost, _almost_ like he is touching something solid, a shiver runs through him. A mild jolt of energy runs through him, into his fingers and spreading out through the rest of his body. It does not hurt, but rather feels like a slight vibration, like sitting in a parked, running car. 

Something is going right, he can feel it.

"You around? It's Henrietta. Firkle's right next to me, and Michael's here too. He's just being a dumbass and doesn't want to talk right now."

"Because it's a waste of time. Nothing's even happening."

"You ever have one of these things work right away?" she snaps back.

Pete narrows his eyes as he stares at the board, trying to focus on making it move. Now that his fingers don't seem to be quite as intangible as they had been, he figures he should just be able to push it around as easily as anyone else. But that isn't working. But that energy, it's still running through him. Maybe that's the key, he thinks, and tries to imagine pushing _that_ outward instead. Push the energy, and direct it where he wants it. Push it and --

The planchette twitches beneath Henrietta's fingers, and Pete laughs triumphantly.

"Hm?"

"Did it move?" Firkle asks, peering over the board.

"I'm not sure."

Pete nods, and whispers, "I got this."

**HI**

"Now it is!" she says as Firkle copies the letters down. "Alright, we hear you. Now who is this?"

Right to the point.

**PETE**

He pauses for a moment, then spells his last name. It can't hurt to be specific.

Firkle shoots quick glances between the paper, the board, Henrietta and even Michael, still pretending to be asleep. Henrietta's only reaction to his message is a quick, sharp inhale that she holds onto for several beats before releasing in a long hiss.

"Okay. Pete," she says, emphasizing his name a bit too hard for normal conversation. She is still skeptical. He doesn't blame her. "Mike says you've been haunting him all week. Is that right?"

**YES**

"How's that been going for you?"

**AWFUL IDIOT LAME**

Firkle snickers as Pete zips the planchette across the board. He has quite a few complaints to lodge about the past week, and hopes that he will be able to go into detail sometime soon. But now really isn't the time to elaborate.

"I bet it's torture," Henrietta smirks. "So is everything he said true?"

**YES**

"So why did you go to him instead of us?"

**TRIED MICHAEL CANT SEE**

He sees Michael's lips twitch as Firkle reads the message aloud.

"But you said something to me, didn't you?"

**YES HENRI**

"Okay. Well, all of that's _really great_ information, but nothing that any jackass spirit wandering through couldn't figure out just by listening to us for the past half hour. So here's the thing. If you are Pete, _our_ Pete, you'd know us better than anyone. So prove it."

He had figured he would have to prove his identity sooner or later, but he had expected a barrage of questions, perhaps. Henrietta instead left it wide open. It is entirely on him now, and he has to think quickly. He can't just rattle off some obscure facts about the three of them. Guilty pleasure movies and books could be guessed, awkward moments could have been seen and talked about by others. It has to be something personal. Something literally no one else could know but him.

And then he realizes her demand isn't quite as open-ended as it sounds.

"Well?" he can hear her patience thinning.

Pete laughs under his breath as he begins to move the planchette again. "You said if I ever mentioned it again, you'd kill me. But I think it's a little late for that."

**EMPRESS HORTENSIA**

"What the hell does that mean?" Michael asks, one eye open and watching the scene before him.

"Sounds like crap to me," Firkle shrugs.

Henrietta stands abruptly, jostling the board as she runs out of her room.

"Henri?"

"What the hell?"

Michael rolls off the bed. "Wait here," he says to Firkle, following after her.

Pete frowns. It had been the right answer, he is certain of it. But her reaction was more than he had anticipated. He supposes he should have expected it, though. He just confirmed what they didn't want to hear.

Michael comes back a few moments later looking shaken. "She locked herself in the bathroom. Do you have any idea what that means?" he nods toward the pad of paper.

"No way."

"Well, she seems to, and," he trails off, staring at the board, almost directly at Pete. He sits down opposite of Firkle. "We should probably wait for her to get back."

Firkle nods, rolling the pen through spindly fingers.

"Sorry, guys," Pete mutters. "I didn't think she'd, uh. Well, I mean... Whatever."

Nearly fifteen minutes pass before Henrietta returns. The tips of her bangs are damp, and her makeup looks even more impeccable than it had before she had left. But her eyes are still tinged with red, and Pete feels a pang of guilt when he realizes he had made her cry. 

"Sorry," he says again.

"I've only ever said that out loud _once,_ and there was only one person that heard it and knew who it was and," she cuts herself off, taking deep breaths.

Firkle rolls the pen along the floor, not looking anyone in the eyes. "So, does that mean..?"

"Yeah, I. Yes. It has to be."

She places her hands back on the planchette, and Michael follows suit. "Are you still there?"

**YES SORRY**

She shakes her head. "Don't be. I'm fine. Are you okay?"

Is he okay? He has been surprisingly at ease with the whole being dead thing, all things considered. 

**I THINK SO**

"So what... What happened to you?"

**DONT KNOW**

That answer isn't good enough for him, let alone for his friends. They deserve better answers. But he still has none. 

**BODY IN FOREST**

"In the," Michael mutters. "Do you think you took a walk and something happened..?"

DONT REMEMBER

He never would have thought that losing two weeks of memory of life in South Park could be so frustrating. A thought occurs to him.

**BODY BURIED MAYBE PUT THERE**

"Buried and put there, like," Firkle starts. "You think someone might have killed you?"

Michael's breath is loud and shaky, and Pete winces as he watches him. 

**MAYBE**

"Who the fuck," Henrietta hisses, slamming one hand onto the floor. "Who would -- I'll stab their fucking eyes out! _No_ one, no-- They are _not_ getting away with this! I'll carve my name in their --"

**CHILL**

"Don't you tell me what to do, I'm gonna --"

**CHILL**

He can't help but laugh. She's so ready to bring down hellfire and torture just for him. One of her many endearing qualities, he thinks.

**THANKS THO**

"Yeah, yeah," she says, her anger starting to fade already. She looks tired. All of them do.

He grumbles wordlessly under his breath, unsure if he should spell out his next message now. But it has been weighing on him since he woke up three weeks ago. Might as well get it all out now.

**MISSED YOU MISSED YOU SO MUCH**

None of them respond right away, and Pete feels his insides clench. Has he said the wrong thing? His emotional reactions have been so much stronger than usual, or at least his outward displays of them. Should he have worded it differently? Made it sound like he isn't so... desperate?

Michael breaks the silence with another shuddering gasp, and brings his arm up to rub his coat sleeve against his eyes. "Stupid," he says, and Pete isn't sure who it's directed at. "Missed you, too."

"It just," Henrietta starts, clutching the ruffles of her skirt and wringing them, looking to be on the verge of tears once more. "It hasn't been the same without you, you know?"

And Firkle, even stoic little Firkle has been reduced to quick nods of the head, lips pursed tight, just barely letting a quick succession of 'mm-hm's escape.

He's relieved they can't see him this time, that they can't see him not even bother to wipe away the tears that begin to pour from his eyes, that they can't hear him sob alongside them, louder and less contained, less in control of himself than they are. 

But he thinks that just this once, if they did see him like this, embarrassing tear stains and runny nose and all, that for just this one time it would have been okay.

He's finally home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, uh. It's been a while. I want to first say, thank you _so much_ to all of the people that have read this, left kudos and comments, and messages on tumblr. I read each and every one of them, and I'm honored that not only do you like the story, that you've stuck through this really long hiatus. Thank you, from the bottom of my heart. I've been trying to work through a massive writer's block, and finally I pushed through it. Dunno how long this writing streak will last, but I'm gonna try to get as much out of it as I can. 
> 
> There's a bit more Mike in this chapter than I'd originally intended, but that's because he's my precious dork baby and I love him. When I wasn't writing over the past year, I was RPing him on tumblr. You might've seen me around if you were part of that scene, I was yourdorkmaster. I don't RP there anymore for a huge number of reasons, though. But doing that for so long, it feels impossible now to write something without him trying to be the center of attention. Regardless of that, he's not going to be the star of the fic. This is still very much Pete's story, and he and Michael are the most important characters. Mike just happens to be able to set a lot of things in motion with his ghosty powers and knowledge.
> 
> But I do want to repeat, since it came up a couple times in comments &etc, that the only pairing in this fic will be one-sided Pete/Michael, as listed in the tags. No Pete/Mike. You don't want me to write Pete/Mike, trust me on this one.
> 
> Next chapter will be exceptionally short compared to this one, more of an interlude really. Then after that, I think it's high time Pete finally started to get some answers on just what exactly happened to him, don't you think?
> 
> Well. It probably won't be _that_ easy, but he'll at least start getting nudged in the right direction. ;)
> 
> Thank you again for everything. You're all wonderful. ♥


	5. Chapter 5

v.

_Maybe years from now they'll find my skeleton on the floor here and they'll have to use dental records to identify me._  
_My family will say, "At least we know now._  
_We always hoped she was alive somewhere._  
_We just hope she's in peace."_  
_-[Victim, The Golden Palominos](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=f5goA8nqwa8)_

As Pete walks, he thinks about the evening. Thinks of his friends and the outpouring of emotion between the four of them. He knows they'll never speak of it again, not a single one of them. Perhaps the most private moment of their lives, a secret they'll someday take with them to their graves. He purses his lips at that. He never saw himself living to a ripe old age, but also never would have expected he'd reach his own grave so soon. There were still things he had wanted to do. Inconsequential things, mostly. Upcoming movies. Books yet to be read, albums by favorite bands that hadn't come out yet.

More importantly: He had dreamed of getting a dog. Escaping this dead-end town. Growing up with his friends, or at least making it out of high school together. Staying with them felt like the only thing that had held him together some days. He wonders if that will change. They can still talk to each other, provided there was a Ouija board in the room. Could they still grow up together? Would he age as a ghost, or remain the eleven-year old he is now? Would it make a difference if he did? Will his friends eventually be too old to hang out with him one day?

His mouth runs uncomfortably dry as he bristles, shaking his head to clear it of the thought. No, no way. They'll stay friends forever; thinking otherwise is just stupid. The night must be getting to him, he thinks. It's never a good idea to let loose that much emotion, even if no one else could see or hear it. Just bottle it back up until he goes back to normal. Their friendship is eternal, and nothing can change that. _Nothing._

He pushes on. Thinks of how they eventually sobered up, composing themselves until a silence fell upon them. If any of them had felt it to be awkward, the feeling must have disappeared quickly. They spent just as much time together silently enjoying each other's company as they did talk to each other, perhaps even more. The quiet was a return to normalcy that Pete welcomed with open arms. For the first time in more than a week, and even longer for his friends, everything was right amongst them again.

Henrietta had put a CD in and let the deep, melodious sounds of violins drift quietly through the room. Michael had lit a cigarette, and the rest of them had followed suit. Pete had wondered if they could smell his smoke mingling with theirs. Before Mike had done his little ritual, he had made an off-hand comment to his group of lackeys that the faint scent of cigarettes seemed to be following him wherever he went lately. And Henrietta had _heard_ him, albeit distantly. 

Things _are_ changing, Pete thinks as another shiver runs down the full length of his body. Not even a week ago, the cold was nothing to him. Now he feels the chill of snowflakes and the bite of wind against his skin as much as he did when he was alive. It's frustrating, but at least, he grins, he won't be catching a cold from it anytime soon.

And if Henrietta can hear him, Mike can smell him, and he can feel the temperature, shouldn't that mean that eventually his friends will be able to see him? It certainly sounds reasonable, he concludes with a nod.

His thoughts drift back again. 

The smoke had settled in the air above them, just one more familiar comfort as they sat in their circle. It could have lasted all night until they fell asleep in a pile of blankets and pillows on the ground, only waking when Henrietta's mother came in and tried to shoo them off to school the next morning. It probably would have, he thinks, if nothing else had happened. Of course, things always happen, and the silence between them was eventually broken.

Pete doesn't blame Michael for speaking up; how could he? 

"So," he had started abruptly, trailing off just as quick. Pete remembers his head jolting up to look at him. After so long with no sounds but their own breaths and occasional lingering sniffs, the noise was jarring. "So what's next? What are you going to do?" he finished, putting a hand onto the planchette.

**DO?**

"I mean... If you're in," he had stopped to frown, reconsidering his words. "If your body's in the forest, shouldn't it come back? For the... Or, I mean, no one knows what happened, so..." he had trailed off again, muttering jumbled thoughts as they came, too quiet for Pete to hear.

**ITS OK**

He paused to consider his options and found himself coming up short.

**IDK ILL THINK OF SOMETHING**

Michael had nodded. "Yeah. Okay. I guess it's really up to you."

"Just remember that we've got your back, whatever you decide to do," Henrietta had chimed in, Firkle nodding alongside her. 

**YES THANK YOU**

He stands under a broken streetlight and stares up at the moon, shrouded by grey clouds. He knows she had meant it when she said it, knows each of them did. What do any of them have, if not each other? A half-formed plan has been brewing in his mind since he left Henrietta's house, and he knows he'll need their help to carry it out. Still, he can't help but think that some of them will probably need to sit it out, as much as he -- and they -- won't like it. The first part of it, at least. But there will be time for that later.

Pete watches the snowflakes drift lazily downward, thick and heavy, illuminated by what moonlight manages to pass through the clouds. It's peaceful. 

Another shudder racks through him, and he draws his arms around his chest and begins to walk again, faster. The motions are out of pure habit. His body temperature remains consistently cold no matter what he does. Somehow, the snowflakes seem much less calming as they flutter around him, though nothing about them has changed. He doesn't want to even try to think about why. He thinks of earlier, again. They had started laughing, muted and wry as they usually did.

"I can't believe Mike was right," Michael had said around his cigarette, shaking his head.

Firkle burst into a series of quick, breathy laughs. "We kicked his ass!"

That had set them all off, snickers and smirks partially obscured by their hands. 

**HAHA HE CRIED**

"Did he really?" Henrietta cackled, nearly dropping her cigarette holder. "I almost wish I'd stuck around to see it."

He tries to hold the recent memory in mind as long as he can as he nears the edge of town. In the back of his mind, he comes to the grim conclusion that he will have to get back in touch with the vamp soon. He still needs to use him for part of his plan to work. Hopefully, Mike will keep up his obnoxious, holier-than-thou attitude and turn the other cheek over their misunderstanding, or some such bullshit. If he doesn't, and throws some sort temper tantrum instead, Pete will need to come up with another idea. He has the Ouija board to keep in contact with his friends, if nothing else. Ideally, his suspicion is proved true and his friends will be able to see and hear him completely, like Mike can. It's a hopeful, positive thought that he tries to latch on to.

Not this, what's coming up next.

It had been a good night. Fun, if a bit rough and shaky at first. He was almost able to pretend that nothing had ever happened to him at all. He'd say it almost killed him to have it end, but, well.

"Pete," Michael began again. There was no hesitation now, just casual words from one friend to another. "Do you want us to get some pillows for you, or do you get to float around the ceiling and shit now?"

He shook his head and chuckled. 

**CANT FLOAT**

"I'll set some up for you."

**YES**

As Michael had begun to stand, Pete frowned, jerking the planchette as quickly as he could to **NO.**

"No?"

**CANT STAY**

"What do you mean, you can't stay?" 

He winced, spelling out his next words as quickly as he could.

**SORRY HAVE TO GO**

"But you just got here!" 

"You went through all that trouble, and now you're leaving?"

Their words had stung in their truth, but worst of all was the look on Michael's face. He had been glad for his invisibility then, still glad for it now. He would have babbled an apology and explanation until his words ran together and he looked like a fool. He was spared that indignity, at the expense of letting his friends draw their own conclusions for the moment. Henrietta and Firkle wore their sadness and disappointment on their sleeves.

Michael, though. Michael had little more than a very tired look in his eyes. Tired, and accepting. Oldest of the four of them, and gifted with the quicker mind his age allowed, he seemed to have figured it out before any of them. Or maybe he knew from the start.

"Where do you have to go?" he had asked, lighting a fresh cigarette as he watched the board out of the corner of his eyes.

He took a deep, shaking breath -- 

\-- and releases one just as long, just as shuddering now.

Home. 

He's been avoiding it entirely since waking up dead more than a week ago. Not because of any ill feelings toward the place. It doesn't look like much of a home, not this sun-faded _thing_ at the edge of the trailer park with a view of the forest on one side and the nicely painted houses of the town on the other. True, he spent as much of his time alive away from it, but with a room just big enough to fit him, his bed and a dresser, why would he stay longer than he had to? It was enough to drive anyone stir crazy. But it's still someplace warm to sleep at night, with as much of his creature comforts as he could cram into the room. Posters, CDs, a stereo salvaged from a dumpster behind the mall. A box full of comics shoved under his bed next to a bass guitar in a beat up case. 

He runs his fingertips along the outside curtains as he walks inside, remembering the stiff feel of the fabric. Familiar, even if he can't truly feel it. 

There's clutter everywhere. No, that's not quite right. 'Clutter' doesn't do the scene before him justice. It's a mess, plain and simple. Dirty dishes piled up in the sink, trash can filled almost to overflowing, notes in his mother's handwriting covering the counter top and table. Names and phone numbers he doesn't recognize, dates and times circled with 'call back' written and underlined beneath them.

Copies of posters with his photo on them stacked to one side, the only neat pile he can see.

It isn't the worst picture of himself he's ever seen. Not a school photo, something his parents must have taken. He doesn't remember when it was taken, or where, but it must have been a good day. He doesn't look even half as miserable as usual in it. He wonders what could have caused that look on his own face, something bordering on contentment instead of contempt. 

Pete glances at the clock on the wall, a gaudy round plastic thing with a rooster on a farm in the center; classic kitsch. His mother should be home from work by now. He walks down the length of the trailer until he reaches the end. Their bedrooms had once been one larger room they shared, until he grew too old for the lack of privacy. His father had separated them the best he could with plyboard, rearranged and crammed in the furniture so it would all fit. It serves its purpose, Pete supposes.

His mother is asleep, and he doesn't quite know what to do with himself now that he sees her. He shoves his hands into his pockets, then out, in again, then out for the last time as he takes a seat on the floor. She, and his father, have been the reason why he's avoided coming back here until now.

They were never bad to him.

They were _parents_ , and therefore by definition _lame_ , but they weren't awful. Better than Henrietta's smothering set, and Michael's overbearing pair. He isn't sure he's ever met Firkle's parents, now that he thinks of it, but he never heard the kid speak of them in anything but icy tones, so he hazards a guess and decides his own aren't that bad, either. In that regard, at least, perhaps he was better off than the others. Not that it matters anymore. 

He can't quite look at her for more than quick glances, eyes darting back down at a stray shoe box on the floor. Old polaroids of holidays and family vacations. He sees one of himself, can't be more than a few hours old and wrapped in blankets in his mother's arms, and his stomach ties itself in knots. He can't look at it. Looks at the carpet, thin spots wearing down where they've been walked on for years.

He supposes he'd been more difficult a kid than she would've probably liked, these past few years. And he supposes she tried. She bought his hair dye regularly, even applied it the first few times until he learned to do it properly on his own. Put up with his... everything. Not all of it had been intentional. 

Pete picks at the carpet as best he can with intangible fingers and frowns, his mouth parching. He isn't sure if it's better or worse that his father hasn't come home yet. He wonders if he's stuck on one of the coasts again, or perhaps they sent him as far as Alaska this time. Truckers went where the job was, or they didn't get paid, and it wasn't a secret they needed that paycheck. His mother might have even persuaded him to stay out there, just a little longer. She was always the more practical one. Or maybe they were both just holding onto hope that he'd walk back in one day like nothing had happened.

He scoffs. He had just walked back in. Fat lot of good it did.

He chances another look at her, and for the first time in a very long time, he feels his age. Feels younger than his age. His eyes ache, but no tears well up in them, not yet. He can feel it coming though, and hates it, hates what it means about him and everything else since waking up a week ago. He clamps his mouth shut just as a moan begins to escape, balls his hands into fists and stands upright. Takes just one step before he's next to the bed and crawls atop the mattress, laying across from her with his head on a pillow. 

It only takes a moment of watching her before he begins to sniff, and on the second, another flood of tears comes up. In the far corner of his mind, Pete is surprised he has any left, after all he's shed earlier that evening. He reaches out to touch her then recoils sharply, remembering how Mike had shuddered and claimed he was freezing him from the inside out when he touched him the day before. He wraps his arms around himself instead, until he begins to calm.

He's still crying, but he can't muster up enough energy to feel ashamed anymore. The sobs that wracked his body have subsided at least, leaving him with a steady trickle running down his face. His breaths steady, and when he feels ready, he begins to talk to her. He whispers, sometimes rushed, sometimes slow and stumbling. Every little thing that had crossed his mind the past week, and even more from before his death. Admitted every secret kept, every lie he could remember, because what was the point of keeping secrets and lies anymore? He spoke until there was nothing left he could think of to say, until he could just lay there with half-lidded eyes and listen to her breathe, until her alarm clock buzzes and shocks them both to alertness.

When she leaves the room to shower and eat, he crawls onto her side of the mattress and curls up into the still-warm sheets, pushing face deep into her pillow. 

Her heat fades in seconds, and he feels even colder than before.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's definitely been a while since I last posted a chapter. I wanted to give some sort of explanation on just why it's constantly taking so long to get things written, but after writing it, it's much too long to put in the notes here. So if you've been curious as to what's been going on, I've put the tl;dr on tumblr [here. ](http://heartsknight.tumblr.com/private/137935893920/tumblr_o1g61eXoaw1trei2a)
> 
> That being said, thank you (thank you! so much!) to people who started reading this fic way back when and are still sticking with it, and hello to anyone just stumbling across it now. You're awesome. ♥
> 
> Next chapter will bring Pete back to the forest, to start really setting things in motion. I can't say it'll be a lighthearted romp in the snow, but it'll probably be slightly less depressing than this and the last chapter was. 
> 
> OH! One last thing: While I don't think clicking the link on the lyric quotes at the beginnings of each chapter is strictly necessary (which is why I've never really brought attention to those youtube links), I do think that they help set the tone for the chapter. This one especially, I believe, sets the tone for both chapter _and_ quite a bit of the upcoming story as well. It's worth a listen.


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